


Erebus and Apollo

by MistressPandora



Category: Lord John Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: But not enough for a crossover, Horror, If you're ye Olde Vampire Chronicles fandom you get it, M/M, Minor Character Death, That OC is a total ripoff, Vampires, Vampires doing sexy vampire things, some gore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-10
Updated: 2020-10-10
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:33:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26938201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MistressPandora/pseuds/MistressPandora
Summary: A stranger makes a spectacular entrance, and Lord John Grey finds himself drawn into another scandal. A horror story.
Relationships: Lord John Grey/Percy Wainwright
Comments: 12
Kudos: 20
Collections: Lord John Trick-or-Twink Spooktacular 2020





	Erebus and Apollo

  


“Would you stop fussing?” Lord John ducked his head to avoid Percy Wainwright’s nineteenth attempt to adjust some vagrant strand of hair. “I suffered through Tom Byrd’s perfectionism for two hours. I assure you, there is sufficient powder—and I daresay some form of adhesive—to ensure the endurance of this ridiculous… Well, I hesitate to call it a _style_.”

Percy clucked his tongue but at least he gave up his offensive. “I do not fuss. And you look splendid, as always.” 

“You are too kind, sir.” Grey replied, meaning it. “As do you. Although…” He leaned close and whispered in Percy’s ear. “I cannot help but think how much better all this finery would look on the floor of your rooms.”

“John!” Percy hissed, his cheeks flushing a most attractive shade of pink by the warm glow of the setting sun.

Grey gave a rather impish laugh, proud of himself for flustering his lover in the street, even if it was mostly an act. 

The late October evening air was brisk and breezy, bringing the promise of suddenly cold days in its wake. Dry leaves tumbled across the stones, crunching underfoot. A strong gust whipped Grey’s cloak with a most dramatic flutter, and he snatched up a corner of it, drawing it back over his shoulders. His suit was positively beyond ostentatious, white and gold and glittering and dripping with French lace. His valet had nearly swooned with glee when he’d seen it, and declared that his employer should attend masquerades more often, as if such over the top events as Lady Joffrey’s masked ball were an everyday occurrence. Thank Christ, they were not. Still, even John had to admit that it was an impressive costume. He was unaccustomed to wearing his hair unbound, and Tom had arranged it loose and flowing about his shoulders, applying an inordinate quantity of gold-dyed powder to color it. Grey occasionally caught sight of his brightly gilt locks from the corner of his eye and struggled not to flinch. His glimmering gold domino mask, the laces expertly hidden beneath his hair, provided similar distraction.

Percy was dressed in a much darker—but no less extravagant—costume. He wore the richest midnight blue velvet adorned with what must be miles of silver embroidery, a slightly more conservative amount of pure white lace at his throat and cuffs. Where Tom had acquired such a dark black wig, Grey couldn’t begin to fathom. But acquire it he had, and had further enhanced it with dabs of a shimmering silver powder that danced in the light from the streetlamps. 

They approached Lucinda Joffrey’s house at a comfortable stroll. “Wait,” Grey said, pulling Percy to a stop with a tug on his arm. He adjusted the lace of Percy’s domino mask, made sure it was tucked properly out of sight. It was a polished jet black with a pearly white crescent over one eye. “There.”

“Now who’s fussing?”

“Remind me to make it up to you later,” Grey replied. 

The Joffreys had decked their house with an enormous quantity of fresh flowers in ornate bowls and urns on every available surface. Platters overflowed with fresh fruit, and Grey and Percy had barely made it three steps inside before a servant offered them goblets of sweet red wine. It was extraordinarily rich and stained Percy’s lips like a dab of rouge. Through only an abundance of will did Grey refrain from kissing it away.

What struck Grey the most about the decor was the shadowy decadence of it all. The candles and braziers were sparse, so much so that the light hardly penetrated most corners of the house. It reflected off of a myriad of gilt edges and silver surfaces, a few opulent mirrors strategically placed throughout the room. The effect was a dim amber glow that made Grey’s suit appear strangely stark by comparison. Percy all but vanished, only the silver in his wig and embroidery easily visible. The atmosphere, though festive, was subtly unsettling, and guests clustered here and there near the braziers, darting from lamp to lamp and not lingering in the shadows.

“Lord John!” Grey looked up to see their hostess grinning broadly from under an emerald green domino mask of her own, painted with the impression of a peacock’s plume. “Lord John and Mr. Wainwright! Oh, how wonderful of you to come.”

Grey and Percy bowed and kissed her hand in turns. “Lady Joffrey, you are a vision.” Grey made a show of considering her gown, tapping a finger on his chin in contemplation. “Hmm, now, let me see. Gaea.”

“Harry told you, didn’t he?” Her tone was feigned disappointment but her eyes sparkled with delight.

“Not at all,” Grey said with sincerity. “You are simply that clever.”

Lady Joffrey beamed at him, then appraised Percy and Grey. “Aha! Erebus and Apollo. Night and day, how brilliant.” 

Grey and Percy gave her flourishing bows of appreciation and Lady Joffrey laughed. Another guest caught her attention, and with a gracious, “Please, enjoy yourselves,” she was off again in a whirlwind of green silk. 

The theme for Lucinda Joffrey's masquerade was _Greek mythology_ and decadence was at every turn. Though, Grey noted to Tom’s credit, no one wore a costume half as ostentatious as Grey and Percy. They drew admiring stares as they made their way through the room, and found themselves drawn into dance after dance with all the eligible—and some decidedly _in_ eligible—women in attendance. Grey made attempt after attempt to disengage himself and rejoin Percy, though his step-brother was just as trapped as he was.

For hours, the fantastical Erebus and Apollo were the talk of the masquerade. When they weren’t exhausting themselves on the dance floor, throngs of people all but formed a queue for the opportunity to gawk and gush. The meaningless prattle and incessant, cordial bowing grew tiresome.

Grey managed to steal away from his seventh or eighth dance partner with a thin excuse about seeing to Percy. “My step-brother is prone to giddiness when he goes too long between meals. I beg your pardon.” And with yet another bow, to Lady… whoever she was… made his way to Percy’s side. “Help,” he whispered in his lover’s ear, yanking him away by the elbow, flashing apologetic smiles to the other guests.

“What’s wrong?” Percy asked, concerned.

Grey towed him to a dark corner of the room behind an enormous urn of crimson roses, away from the other revelers collected around the infrequent candles. He took a moment to catch his breath. “Nothing. I needed a break from ghastly small talk. Here.” John extracted a parchment-wrapped sweet from his pocket and dropped it into Percy’s hand. “If anyone asks, you felt faint but you’re much restored.”

The paper crinkled as Percy gave him a sidelong glance but he popped the sweet in his mouth nonetheless. He wasn’t so vain as Hal, but no one enjoys playing the scapegoat. Grey accepted two more glasses of the burgundy wine from a passing tray, handing one to Percy. The wine carried the aroma of overripe berries and chocolate and they drank greedily, watching the ball in a state of blessed quiet.

Something shifted in the air. A clock tolled eleven, and a ripple went through the gathering. There was nothing specific that made Grey realize that the attention had moved from the legendary Erebus and Apollo, merely some sensation at the back of his neck. As if he’d been surreptitiously followed all this time and the tail had finally given it up. It was a weight removed from his shoulders, and Grey breathed a little easier, noting the unmistakably sensuous fragrance of the roses they hid behind. 

Fortified by the wine, the pair ventured back to the ball, Grey burning with growing curiosity about whatever—or whoever—had captured everyone’s attention. Despite having fallen out of favor as the talk of the evening—to Grey’s continued relief—they were immediately hauled back into the social tedium of superficial conversation.

That’s when Grey saw him. The man moved about the room as if merely walking were too mundane a mode of transportation and only gliding on a cloud would do. He wore a velvet suit of a deep red, as of arterial blood, so dark it was nearly black in the gloom. Even from this distance, Grey could see that his blond hair was unpowdered yet nearly as golden as the shining powder with which Tom had treated his own locks. His skin though… like alabaster. The stranger declined a goblet of wine, plucking a rose from a vase as he floated past it. He held it to his nose without looking at it. Grey stopped breathing. 

Percy had fallen silent next to him. The man came to an abrupt halt and turned to face Grey, his gaze through a blood-red domino mask intensely penetrating, rooting Grey to the spot. The stranger lowered the rose and his long fingers caressed the velvety petals with an air of distraction. He took one step toward them and Grey gripped Percy’s wrist.

“Who the devil is _that_?” Grey asked under his breath. 

“I have no idea,” Percy whispered back. “But my _God_ , what an entrance.”

The stranger approached them, eyes boring into Grey’s soul the entire way. A pleased little grin tugged at his wine-red lips as he looked Grey and Percy up and down in such a way as left Grey feeling stripped bare. It was not an unpleasant sensation. 

“Remarkable,” the man said with a French accent. “The dichotomy—very clever—for Apollo to take the embodiment of the night as his consort. And what a lovely embodiment it is.” He skimmed the rose blossom over Percy’s cheek and lips. Percy shivered and the whole spectacle filled John with the unhinged urge to stake his claim on both of them in a very domineering and sexual manner, right there in the parlor. 

Unable to say anything that wouldn’t lead to open scandal, Grey finished his wine. He’d not eaten anything since an early tea and his head had begun to swim.

Percy recovered first. “I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure to make your acquaintance before, sir.” Grey could have kicked him for lingering on the word _pleasure_ like that.

The stranger's smirk turned predatory, his preternaturally blue eyes sparkling with mischief. "Ah, but the true pleasure lies not in mere acquaintance. Excuse me." And then he was gone, swallowed by the crowd.

"John…" Percy whispered.

Grey gave a distracted, inquisitive hum, still speechless.

"Who the bloody hell was that?"

"I'm sure I haven't the faintest idea." Grey's mouth had gone dry and breathing was a chore.

"I want him," Percy whispered. His hand was tight on Grey's arm.

"So do I," Grey muttered. 

"I think the feeling is mutual."

Grey made a noise indicating agreement. He couldn't recall ever feeling so distinctly like a choice cut of meat before—and certainly not enjoying it. "More wine?"

Percy gave Grey a conspiratorial grin. "Why, Lord John, I believe you're trying to get me drunk."

"Guilty as charged. Do you object?" He eyed Percy, knowing full well the answer was no. Grey thought his lover already felt the effects of the fortified wine, his cheeks a tantalizing red. If he kissed him, Grey would taste it on his lips. 

"You know that I don't," Percy answered as he acquired two glasses of wine and handed one to Grey. 

Yes, Grey did know that. He also knew Percy wouldn't object to a night full of tipsy tumbles in his bed after they'd peeled themselves out of their ridiculous attire. 

The minds of the masquerade guests thus captured by the French stranger, Grey and Percy found themselves rather relieved of the attention and able to enjoy themselves for nearly an hour. 

The clock struck midnight and a woman's horrified scream rang out through the house. A hush fell over the guests and musicians all at once. Grey bristled, eyes drawn immediately to the full figure of Lucinda Joffrey, nearly tripping over herself to escape some terrible apparition. He thrust his empty wine glass to Percy and pushed his way through the dumbstruck revellers to her side. Lady Joffrey fell into his waiting arms, sobbing. 

Grey held her close, looking over her head to the dark room she’d just fled but he couldn’t see anything alarming. “What is it, my dear? What’s happened?” he asked, waving back a group of onlookers who crowded them.

“Dead!” Lady Joffrey wailed. 

“Who’s dead?” Grey caught Percy’s eyes, and his lover shook his head. He couldn’t see anything from his vantage point either.

Lady Joffrey gasped and sobbed. “Richard!” she cried. “It’s Sir Richard—he’s been… m-murdered!”

The curious guests gasped and shrieked, falling back as if the poor, stricken woman’s declaration could make victims of them all.

Grey didn’t let go of her and Lady Joffrey made no attempt to pull away, her tears puddling on the breast of his coat. “Did you see who?”

Lady Joffrey shook her head. “No. But poor Richard, his throat is… Oh, John, there’s nothing left!”

Grey spotted a woman whose name he couldn’t place but knew her to be a close acquaintance of Lady Joffrey. He got her attention and beckoned her to take her friend to rest. “I’ll take care of it, my dear,” he murmured as he passed her over.

Capturing Percy’s arm in one hand and a candle from a sconce in the other, Grey strode into the scene of the apparent crime. The candle cast a thin pool of orange light in a narrow radius, and he held it high over his head in an attempt to make the most of it. They had to creep well into the stylish drawing room, but at last the candle’s glow fell on the prostrate form of one Sir Richard Joffrey. He squatted next to the body, squinting through the gloom, candle still held aloft. 

“Oh. _Jesus_ ,” Percy gasped.

Sir Richard’s throat had been all but torn out, though there was surprisingly little blood for such a wound. When Grey touched his wrist—there was no point feeling for a pulse, after all, there wasn’t anywhere for it to go—it was as cool as the floor on which he lay. “Shit,” Grey hissed.

“What do we do?” Percy whispered.

Grey looked up at him. His step brother looked a bit green around the edges but held himself together. “Well, it stands to reason that the killer is still at the party. Possibly willing to strike again. Tell the servants that no one is to leave, on my order. Drop Hal’s title if you have to.”

Percy nodded and left in a flourish of midnight velvet.

“Poor bastard,” Grey muttered to himself, getting a closer look at the body. There truly was remarkably little blood, considering. Only a few spatters on his waistcoat and shirtsleeves, his coat missing. Grey looked around the room from his crouching position, and found an amorphous, emerald mass draped in a heap over a chair. It was impossible to really make out the shape of it in the dark, but the color was the same as Sir Richard’s breeches. His empty eyes stared straight up at the ceiling, lifeless, his mouth open in a wordless shout he never had the chance to loose.

Grey sighed and stood. He should perhaps send for someone… Harry Quarry at least. Other than his inconsolable wife, Grey couldn’t think of any other next of kin. There should be an inquiry… The only people he could reasonably be certain weren’t the murderer were himself, Lady Joffrey—she wasn’t that good of an actress—and Percy. Lady Joffrey was a soggy mess and likely well on her way to a drunken stupor, understandably. Grey had at least _some_ experience with murder investigations after all. 

Lord John emerged from the dark drawing room to a muttering crowd, herded like so many small groups of cattle in the thin light of the braziers. No one had bothered lighting any additional candles, leaving the house in an eerie gloom. He cast about for Percy, but the man was nowhere to be found. He asked several guests, but no one had seen him. 

Confusion gave way to concern, which spiraled slowly into a mad panic. _Oh, God_ , Grey thought, fear hastening his steps. He darted from gathering to gathering, dozens of masked faces gawking at him, unsettled. Worried, because Grey himself was worried when he had been the one to take charge of the situation. _Christ, Perseverance, where the hell have you gone?_

“John,” hissed a familiar voice.

Grey whirled around to find Percy in a doorway, the room behind him as dark as the drawing room where Sir Richard’s corpse still lay. He let out a sigh of relief. “Thank heavens,” he gasped. He stared at Percy, the hair on the back of his neck standing on end, his instincts alerting him that something was wrong before his executive faculties could identify the reason. Something in Percy’s eyes, perhaps?

“Come in here. I need to show you something.” Percy reached out for Grey, his slender hand pale in the silvery moonlight coming in through a window over his shoulder. He took his hand and John let him pull him into the room.

"What…" Grey began, that danger sense going on high alert, screeching beneath his direct perception. He squinted at Percy in the gloom. The only light in this room was that of the moon, filtered through gauzy curtains that swayed in the cold breeze from the open window. Percy’s lips were chilly on his mouth. His hands pushing their way under John’s coat and waistcoat were insistent and demanding, tugging his shirt from his breeches. The hard line of Percy’s prick jabbed into his hip. “Percy—” Grey gasped.

Two arms appeared from behind Grey, encompassing them both. Grey startled and tried to round on the intruder, ready to defend himself and Percy. But the grip was iron and Percy was smiling and Grey was trapped. “I demand that you unhand me, sir,” Grey said, still trying to turn on the man holding him.

The man’s breath was warm high up on Grey’s neck, nudging his hair aside with his nose and tickling behind his ear. “You will be demanding something else quite soon, I think,” the man said. It was the French stranger. 

Fear and dread rose up in Grey and he tried to pry the Frenchman’s hands off of Percy’s waist, but he may as well have been trying to bend stone. “Percy, you need to get out of here. Help me, he’s impossibly strong.”

Percy’s eyes fluttered closed and he licked his lips in some odd shade of ecstasy. “Oh, I know.” He untied Grey’s lacy neckcloth, and Grey realized that Percy’s was missing as well. As was his coat, his waistcoat unbuttoned to the point of futility. There was a dark smear on his neck. “So am I.” Percy captured Grey’s wrists in his hands, raised his arms above his head and held him there as if suspended from the ceiling by manacles. “And soon, so will you be, John, my love.” 

The French stranger swept Grey’s hair to the side, his sharp nails scraping against the sensitive skin of his neck, leaving a trail of gooseflesh in their wake. Grey’s breath caught in his throat and Percy leaned forward and kissed him, lewd and open-mouthed and damning in its intensity. If someone were to see… But no, the guests were too frightened to venture this far into the darkened house. “At least—” Grey gasped when one of the stranger’s hands came to rest on his chest, holding him, possessive, unbreakable. The other slid down Grey’s side, hip, around to the front of his breeches.

“Trust me,” Percy whispered into his mouth. “You’re safe. We have you.”

There was so much delectable sensation. Something in Percy’s tone settled Grey, let the fear and alarm give way to arousal and desire. His cock strained his breeches, and the Frenchman palmed it over the fabric of his costume sending shivers of delight through his body. “At least tell me your name.”

The Frenchman’s teeth scraped the bend of Grey’s neck, where it gave way to shoulder. “My name is not important. I have many. You may call me _Master_ , if you wish. Or _Sire_.” The stranger pressed wet kisses to the flesh of Grey’s throat and then his iron grip spun him around, turned his back to Percy. The stranger’s body was hard against his chest, stomach, hips, thighs, and Grey lamented the layers of fine clothing between them. 

Grey met the man’s gaze and felt as though he would plummet over a precipice into a rocky sea hundreds of feet below and unseeable beyond a thick mist. But Percy was behind him, pressed full-length against his back, the hard line of his cock slotted against Grey’s arse. He grew dizzy staring at the stranger’s eyes, and he clung to the man’s arms for support and balance. Want, desire, lust, _hunger_ , and thirst and a million other animalistic things passed between them, driving away reason and logic and propriety and left John a gasping, desperate mess. Desperate to possess and to be himself taken, needing with every fiber of his being to devour and be devoured by this strange Frenchman with the golden hair and hypnotic eyes. To have Percy too, to wallow naked in soft sheets and a featherbed, reveling in the decadent yearnings of the flesh.

“Master then,” Grey whispered. He’d not meant to submit to him, had no intention of giving in. But those eyes… Christ, they cut right through him, pierced him, pinned him, penetrated him, clear through his clothes and skin and muscle and bone, all the way to the heart of him, to his soul. 

His words pleased Master, drew his lips into a smile that exposed his sharp eyeteeth. “You do want me then,” Master said. It wasn’t a question. “Then we shall have each other, my beautiful Apollo.”

Percy’s arms were around his chest, deft fingers plucking open the buttons of Grey’s waistcoat with deliberate movements. Grey leaned back against his lover, senseless and dizzy with need. 

“It will only hurt for a moment,” Percy whispered, his breath warm on Grey’s ear, his tongue tracing the shell of it. Grey let out a whimper, a shiver skittering down his spine and echoing over his arms. “And then… such pleasure as you’ve never known, my love. Don’t you want it?”

“Oh God, yes.” Grey had never wanted anything so much in his life. “Please, Master,” he begged. Perhaps he should have been ashamed to beg like that, but he wasn’t. It was entirely sincere.

Master’s fingers were cool in Grey’s hair, taking him away from Percy, cradling him in his arms, the protective embrace of a lover as he licked and kissed Grey’s throat. The sharp pain there made him gasp. The sting of it was fleeting, then it gave way to a pleasant ache, and finally a tug. A gentle tug as Master sucked a mark into his skin. Except Grey felt it everywhere on his body—inside, outside—absolutely everywhere. It pulled on every single hair on his body individually, plucked them like the strings of a harpsichord and left his flesh ringing. 

A drum somewhere, tapping out his heartbeats in erratic chaos. No, it _was_ his heart, laboring, threatening to give out, unable to keep up with Master’s demand. Grey gasped, lips parted in a silent scream, clinging to Master. He nearly spilled himself in his breeches, untouched, from the totality of the vibrant ecstasy rushing through him. Unable to stand any longer, Master held him, supporting all of his weight easily. 

Then all at once the pull was gone, the luxurious, mad pleasure trickling out, dripping like water from his fingertips and the ends of his hair. The drumbeat was impossibly slow, barely a rhythm at all anymore. But Master was pressing his wrist to Grey’s lips, warm and wet and tasting of miracles.

“Drink your fill, my Apollo, and be mine forever.”

Grey’s lips closed on Master’s wrist, and he sucked. Thick power filled his mouth like syrup, quenching his thirst, sating his hunger, stoking his arousal. His eyes were closed but the more he drank, the more he saw, the more he heard. A second drumbeat, louder, stronger, faster than the first. It dragged the slow beat of Grey’s heart along in its wake, helped it to catch up. 

Master let out a moan that sounded like sex. “Oh, Erebus, you were right. He’s perfect.”

Someone’s hands stroked Grey’s hair, hips, chest, erotically charged and intense. He still did not open his eyes, swimming in the crimson darkness, a creature of sensation and pleasure and blood.

Master leaned heavily on him, and he and Percy held him in a beautiful embrace while Grey drank his fill, his strength returning. More and more and not enough. Drinking from Master’s wrist was the elixir of life, hell and heaven and earth and the stars and the moon. As exhilarating as running naked through the forest under the scarlet glow of a blood moon, when the witching hour has passed and there are no gods. It was above sex, more than mere fleshy delights, yet Percy or Master might have taken their pleasure from him in any manner they saw fit and Grey would have begged for more. 

At last—at long last—Grey’s beating heart had overtaken Master’s, had gained the advantage, and Master pulled his wrist away, letting Grey lick it clean. They both gasped and panted, Percy’s hands working the buttons of Grey’s flies, his hand closing around the length of Grey’s prick.

“Well done, my beautiful Apollo,” Master said. “Open your eyes. See the world anew.”

Trembling under Percy’s touch, under Master’s words of praise, Grey opened his eyes. He squeezed them shut again, the once-dim room was awash with brilliant light that hurt him to look at.

“It is only candles and the blood. Try again.”

Grey forced himself to breathe—no easy feat with Percy stroking him like that—and opened his eyes slowly.

There were no words in any language. No poetry. No songs, nor sonnets. Absolutely _nothing_ created by man to describe the change. Colors existed where they had not before. Light danced where it had never dared touch. The moon laughed with glee. And Master’s face… Master’s face was God Himself. 

Grey stared in wonder and amazement. Master smiled in approval. Grey could see the blood under his skin. Could hear the drumbeats of their hearts—all three of them. There was a hearth in this room, and Grey felt it in his bones that he could rip the mantel from the wall without any effort. It was the feeling of immortality from his youth, but not undercut by the logic that _something might_ someday kill him, nor the limits of his physical form.

Master seemed to know what he was thinking. “Only the sun, my love. Only the sun is your predator. The world is yours. How do you feel?”

Grey gasped, wishing to throw Percy to the ground and fuck him senseless. But there was more. So much more. And only one word for it. 

“Hungry, Master.”


End file.
